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Monday, 2.28.05: Sunday nights

This morning I'm brain dead. Not a creative thought. Not an opinion about anything.

Back when I had a M-F job (that's M-F for Monday-Friday, not m-f the 13-letter adjective ending with ing, though that might apply too), I had a Sunday night syndrome: stay up as late as possible to make the weekend last longer.

Now my work slops into every corner of my 7 days. With filmmaking there is only so much creativity that can be mustered every day, but with "collection management" (and its "shopkeeping" branch), there is always some satisfying puttering to do.

Last night we watched HBO's Carnivale (freaks, Armageddon), then I retired to my office and watched The L-Word on Showtime (lesbians and their personal armageddons). It was 11 and I was still resisting calling it a day.

I poured myself a cosmopolitan from the container in the freezer -- a leftover from Friday's cocktail hour.

I was paging through one of Jim's fat albums of postcards. This one contains photographic postcards of U.S. views -- mostly Rochester and New York, but a little bit from everywhere. About every third album page is "bad" plastic. I take out the cards and put them into "good" plastic. I see there is no order to the states, so I start sorting them out. Then I curse myself for beginning something that is taking too long, but that now must be finished.

Then it's midnight. There are still a dozen 4-card pages left to sort, but I'm finally ready for bed. Like Scarlett said: "I'll think about it tomorrow."

 

 

 

 

 

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